


I'll Take Care of You

by xtrachocolatechips



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mild Descriptions of Blood and Gore, Mild Emetophobia Warning, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Self-Mutilation, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtrachocolatechips/pseuds/xtrachocolatechips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Zombie Apocalypse!Game Grumps AU]</p><p>"<em>Ross cannot pinpoint</em> when <em>he saw Dan kill someone for the first time, but he does vividly remember the sensation of the other’s trembling, bony hands cupping his face afterwards, of the taste of coppery blood on his lips.</em>"</p><p>What Ross calls dangerous, Dan begins to call love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Parados

**Author's Note:**

> wow cheesy summary
> 
> ok so!! introducing the zombie grumps au without any actual zombies in it! ive been working on this one for a good three months now and have had a bit of anxiety in deciding whether to post it or not :S
> 
> chapters will be uploaded weekly if all goes according to plan.
> 
> also, shout out to my absolutely wonderful betas for taking the time out of their day to nitpick at my writing to make sure that it doesn't suck as much as i think it does!
> 
> OH AND ONE LAST THING this story was partly inspired by [this post ](http://www.megarumi.tumblr.com/post/107526559559/rubberbang-au-where-ross-and-danny-are-runaways)

Ross cannot pinpoint _when_ he saw Dan kill someone for the first time, but he does vividly remember the sensation of the other’s trembling, bony hands cupping his face afterwards, of the taste of coppery blood on his lips.

“ _I’ll take care of you,_ ” He can still hear the other say, because it’s become kind of a mantra for the both of them, “ _I’ll take care of you I promise we’ll make it out okay I’m sorry you had to see that.”_ There is blood on his face, hands, and the ripped The Killers t-shirt Ross had gotten him for Christmas last year. It is _everywhere_ now—Dan is directly in front of Ross so that he can’t see it on the ground behind him, on the bodies behind him, but _oh_ he knows it’s there, can smell the rotten stench of death lingering in the air. “ _Ross, look at me._ ”

Ross does not know _where_ to look because if he glances behind he will see the dead, but if he looks up into Dan’s gaze he knows he will start to cry, so settles for staring at his partner’s chest instead with cold, unwavering eyes. (He’s not moving anymore, his train of thought is a convoluted mess. In the back of his mind, he sees visions of Dan smiling and being happy one second, and then lunging with his machete the next.)

“ _I’m sorry.”_

He knows this. Dan’s fingers grow cold on his cheeks as he crouches down further so that their gazes can finally meet; his expression is absolutely crumpled with grief, and as Ross predicted, he can already feel the tears begin to well in his eyes. Then the other’s bruised lips are suddenly on his forehead, his nose, and then gently upon his own, from which Ross is able first to realize what blood tastes like.

When Dan recoils, he looks more affirmative and murmurs, “ _They were going to hurt us._ ” Ross wonders if he’s just saying that to make himself feel better. “ _They were going to hurt you._ ”

“ _I know,_ ” Ross hears himself finally answer. It’s so fucking quiet.

“ _They were trying to steal our food_.”

“ _I know._ ”

“ _They attacked us first_.”

“… _I know._ ”

“ _Are you mad at me?_ ”

Ross is not even thinking; it’s as if his head moves on its own as he slowly shakes his head no. Again, barely above a whisper, “ _You had to protect us._ ”

And it’s as if once Ross says this, Dan is more at ease, more willing to forgive himself. He exhales shakily, moving one of his trembling hands upwards to ruffle Ross’s chestnut hair with utmost affection, and for a second, it’s almost like Ross hadn’t just watched him kill two raiders. “ _I had to protect us,_ ” Dan repeats.

 

xXx

 

Ross remembers when they were happy.

He remembers the little dates they would go on before The Outbreak happened, when Dan would drive them out to deserted areas on the outskirts of town. They’d sing as loud as they could to the radio the whole way, and would pull over to sit on top of the hood of his pickup when it began to grow dark. It was always cold, so they’d burrow themselves in the blankets they’d stuffed in the trunk, huddle close together, and spend the night looking up into the starry sky.

There was one time in particular when they had been reveling in their shared silence whilst gazing at the splendor above, and Ross turned to Dan to find that the other had already been gazing at him, albeit longingly.  

“Uh,” Dan began (as eloquently as ever) after a moment, “this is pretty out of nowhere, but have I ever told you how fucking _beautiful_ you are?”

Ross, like always, was slow to process his words. Gradually, heat began to creep up his face; in the dark, he blinked rather owlishly at him before quickly looking away. “Dude, that’s _so_ gay.”

And then Dan was laughing his bubbly, infectious laughter, and then they were both laughing until their sides hurt and Ross had to rest his head on Dan’s shoulder so he could calm himself down again.  For the rest of the night they stayed like that, and when Ross started to nod off, Dan gathered him in his arms and carried him into the truck for a peaceful night’s rest.

Four and a half weeks later, Dan has to again tell his partner just how beautiful he is; when he walks into the bedroom of the abandoned house they’re hiding out in, he finds Ross staring at himself in a floor-length mirror as if he were the most bewildering  sight he’d ever encountered.

It is the first time Ross gets to look at his own reflection since The Outbreak, and he’s forgotten what he looked like before, but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t like _this._

His hair is a longer, disheveled mess; his previously pale skin is now near a golden, sun-broken tan that is hidden under thin layers of dirt and grime that cake over even the flesh behind his ears. He’s wearing boots and cargo shorts that are ratty, faded, and stained, and has all but shredded the old Rush t-shirt Dan had lent him to wear days prior. Stubble is prickling at his chin, but the worst of it all are his _eyes_ and how _manic_ they are, how _red,_ how fucking _bloodshot._

Ross blinks once, twice, rubs at them with one hand, and Dan sees this as the perfect opportunity to approach him from behind and wrap his arms around him as tightly as he can.  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Dan coaxes him under his breath; while Ross is flailing and whining, Dan nuzzles his hair and rests his chin atop his head until the other has stopped protesting, and it suddenly goes quiet again because they are both staring into the mirror now.

Ross wonders when Dan had last eaten a proper meal. He’d obviously been skinny and lanky before, but the way his eyes have sunken in strikes a chord in the Aussie’s chest that makes his heart begin to race with unease. His mind frantically wanders to whenever Dan would insist he take the extra bit of rations they could manage to get their hands on, and he immediately becomes hot with anger at himself for being so _damn_ oblivious. He tilts his head back and reaches up to run his fingers over Dan’s cheek absent-mindedly (and for a second, he almost expects them to hit his previous, exuberant mass of curls that has since been replaced with a close cut mat of thick-ish hair). After another moment of silence, Dan shifts back a bit and turns Ross around so that he can hug his waist and pull him close to his chest.

Into the crook of his neck, Ross mumbles, “You’re bony as fuck, man.”

Dan snorts. “Really? I had no idea.”

“No, I mean like…“ He squeezes him. “You need to stop giving me your rations.”

“Aw, babe—“

“I’m _not kidding._ ” He wriggles out of his hold to jut an accusatory finger at him. “Like, can you imagine how lame it would be to die in a zombie apocalypse by _starving_?”

Dan pretends to think hard about it, stroking his goatee and nodding in agreement. “I can’t even argue with you on that. You make a compelling point.” Looking at Ross for a second longer seems to prompt an idea in his head. “Hold on a sec.” He pushes Ross down to sit on the bed and dashes out of the room suddenly, leaving the other rather dazed and confused until he comes back in moments later with a small, wet towel in hand.

Ross gapes. “I thought the water wasn’t working!”

“The sink in the bathroom turns on sometimes.” He kneels down in front of him. “Close your eyes. You have dirt that’s, like, ingrained into your skin.”

Ross complies reluctantly; Dan begins to towel his forehead gently. When the older man’s covered almost all his face, Ross opens one eye to see the other posing an expression of complete determination that causes him to crack a smile. “You look so serious.”

“Probably because you smell like shit.” He pulls away to return his smile with his own. “Shirt off, please.”

“Ooh, sexy.” Ross winks, wiggles his butt, and proceeds to strip with ease, giving a dramatic throw of his shirt into the corner of the room for extra measure.

Instantly, Dan has to suck in his breath to keep from making any noises that he know will make Ross panic. He’s only got a view of his chest and torso, but the purplish bruises and clusters of scrapes that decorate his flesh are present enough to make him feel physically ill. And by _god_ , is he thinner—with trepidation, Dan reaches out his now trembling free hand to touch the ribs poking through his skin, but Ross quickly seizes his wrist just before he’s able to, startling the other.

His expression is soft; his clear, blue eyes are swelling with utmost sincerity. “Hey, Dan,” comes his quiet plea, and Dan can hear his voice crack and it makes him feel like he wants to die, “Dan, can you—you— fuck, don’t look at me like that—“

When had his cheeks become wet? With a start, Dan realizes that he’s been crying without even knowing it, sitting up straight and dropping his towel so he can wipe at his eyes. Ross is then instinctively leaning forward to help, and grabs it off the ground before gently prying Dan’s hands away from his face to dab tenderly with it at his cheeks. “C’mon, dude,” he croons softly, “don’t do this. We don’t need this right now.”

They don’t. And maybe it’s because of the way Ross says it, but Dan promptly feels guilty for showing any indication of sadness. He reels back after a quiet minute to take both of Ross’ hands in his own, and answers the look of confusion and concern Ross is giving him with light kiss to his forehead. “Sorry, I just fuckin’…” He shakes his head. “…I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“'s okay.” They press their foreheads together, falling silent again. Ross closes his eyes and listens to Dan’s staggering breaths, and just hearing him breathe ignites a feeling of relief to wash over him. He is not religious, but in that very moment, he is thanking all gods out there, if any, for blessing them with their survival.

 

xXx

 

Ross wishes he knew when Dan began to break. He wishes he knew how it started.

Dan begins to mumble a lot. And it’s okay at first, Ross understands they are under difficult circumstances that prompt stress, it’s okay, but then they find the radio.

It’s a ratty, old pocket-sized thing that’s been hidden in the depths of the attic, and only spouts static when turned on regardless of the station it’s switched to. Ross comes bounding downstairs with it in hand one day and gives it to Dan, and once he does, it’s like the other never puts it down. From then on he catches him with it in either one of the pockets of his jeans or in his hands, and sometimes he is talking to it, but only when he thinks Ross isn’t watching him, and Ross has the sense to not pry about his behavior even though it puts him at unease.

It starts out like that, starts quietly. Or, Ross later thinks, maybe this is how Dan has been the entire time, and he’s just been too oblivious to notice.

Either way, Dan’s smile starts to only make appearances of consolation when Ross isn’t happy, and Dan becomes more evasive of telling him how he really feels. And it _hurts._ Where Ross would pounce on him before they went to sleep every night to spill how he was holding up, Dan would no longer eagerly respond about his own personal endeavors, and instead only opted to nudge him or make quiet noises of agreement.

“Hey,” Ross softly confronts him one evening, “you know you can tell me anything, right?” They are sharing the bed in the upstairs bedroom in a rather uncomfortable position—Danny spoons Ross from behind by stretching his arms out around the large supply backpack Ross wore while he slept every night, just to hug his waist.

“Mm.” Dan’s deep voice vibrates behind his ears.

“’Cause like… we’re still heterosexual life partners and all—“

“—We are very much _not_ heterosexual, Ross—“

“—Okay yeah, you’re right, sorry, we’re like, spirit husbands or whatever.” He pauses here because he’s really proud of himself for actually arousing a laugh out of Dan, a task that had been proving near impossible as of late. “Point is—“ His giggling seeps into his words, “—Point is, we’re gonna be stuck together through this, and we can’t just stop communicating and pretend that everything’s gonna turn out alright because of it.”

Dan doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re communicating right _now_.”

“Well yeah, duh, but I mean like, in general.” He squeezes at the arm hugging at his waist. “We haven’t been talking as much lately.”

His words seem to linger in the air, and after a prolonged silence, he turns his head back slightly just as Dan leans forward to peck him on the cheek. 

“Sorry,” he says, smile wavering, “I hadn’t even realized I was acting like such a dick. I’ll try to talk more.”

“Yeah, you total chode.” Ross grins as he settles back into his previous sleeping position, giving a teasing pinch to Dan’s arm once. “…and thanks.”

A weight has thus been cast off his chest; sleep begins to overwhelm him more quickly now that he can breathe. Warmth—a rarity in their times—radiates from the pair as they shift to get comfortable, and while Ross is practically half conscious, he faintly hears Dan call out his name and isn’t sure if he’s dreaming or not but responds anyway with a slur-y, “Yeah?”

Dan’s vibrato voice is fading in and out in his ears, “I love you.”

“ _Mmn_ … Loveyoutoo, Dan.”


	2. Stasimon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens! 
> 
> thanks for all of the wonderful comments and likes/reblogs on tumblr! they're definitely motivating!

“…Sorry kid, lay off.”

It’s hot, too hot. Under the weight of the sweltering heat, Ross can barely move functionally; his body is heavy and wavers whenever it’s not idle. Sweat is sticking in his hair, prickling his flesh and clinging his shirt to his torso, and he thinks it’s almost sealing his eyes shut until he blinks himself awake to the sound of his partner’s distant voice.

Subconsciously, he runs his tongue over his dry, cracked lips. His vision is blurred and hazed, and it takes him too long to comprehend where he is and for his eyes to adjust to the scene happening in front of him. A brief moment of drowsy observation reveals to him that he’d fallen asleep against the back of an empty supply cart that’s propped up against the side of a small, brick shop. He has to squint to make out Dan just up ahead on the sidewalk across the road. Ross can’t exactly tell what’s happening, but it sort of looks like a small child has stooped in front of Dan and is tugging eagerly at his pant leg, to which Dan is responding by promptly attempting to shake them off with increasing exasperation.

“Dude, I said _lay off._ ” His voice is laced with nothing but edge that causes Ross to think, _what a persistent kid,_ and he begins to re-shoulder his supply bag and stands so he can wander over to see what the commotion’s all about. Admittedly, this is a very difficult effort; by the time he’s hobbled over to them, he’s practically excreting more sweat than he’d already had been before.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Ross forces a smile at the pair whilst wiping at his forehead. Dan and the kid—who appears to be a scrawny little boy—look at him at the same time, Dan with eyes glazed over with weary annoyance, and the boy with a picture perfect expression of pure, innocent curiosity.

“He’s been following me since I left the market,” Dan explains while continuing to push the kid off. The other is relentlessly holding onto him like there’s no tomorrow. He doesn’t look a day older than seven, and is all but smeared with dirt as if he’d run for miles through the arid outbrush.  “I think he saw the bread I traded for and just, like—“

“Why haven’t you given him some?” Ross is dumbfounded, he stretches out the words as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world, “Little dude’s hungry, cut him some slack.”

But then Dan slowly lifts his head and looks at him, just looks, with a cold gaze and his lips pressed in a tight line. His mouth opens to say something, hesitates, closes again, opens, and his voice is low and strong as he says, “It’s _our food_.”

And with those three words, Ross receives the sinking feeling for the first time.

Whenever disbelief and anger arise within him, he feels sick, like he’s being pulled under; it infiltrates his senses and stomach much like how nausea would. Despite it being small this time it clutches his gut and almost causes him to swoon, and for a split second he wonders if he’s going to be okay, if Dan is ever going to be the same as he was before. 

“It’s…” Struggling to speak, his words become blocks that slide off his sandpaper tongue and he suddenly doesn’t know where to look anymore, “…h-he’s just a kid, Dan.  Give him a piece.”

“Yeah,” Dan scoffs and finally succeeds in shaking the kid off, who then falls to the ground with a disheartening cry, “and let you starve?”

“Give him a _fucking piece_ , Dan, _Jesus!_ ”

Ross is seeing red, seeing white, clenching his fists so hard that his nails dig into his palms. Something is reverberating in his ears, but he doesn’t know if it’s the sound of his own mangled voice or if it’s the blood curdling inside him— maybe it’s his breathing, the way his breath and body tremble together every time he exhales.

The air is still, the people that were previously walking to and fro amongst the square are still, Dan is still, and Ross’s eyes dart down to find that the boy is _frozen_. When it dawns on him that no one is going to move, Ross tugs off his backpack and frantically rifles through it to remove an apple that he shakily hands to him. The kid's  wide, frightened eyes match Ross’s own expression of terror, and when their fingers briefly brush, they are both trembling.  “Here,” he manages to choke out (and it doesn’t even sound like himself, it doesn’t even sound real), “Sorry.”

Murmurs, they’re being surrounded by murmurs now, by the hushed, inquisitive whispers of the bystanders around them. In seconds, the boy’s taken Ross’s offering and is immediately scrambling away for dear life, leaving the other poised on the ground with his bag still hanging half-way off his shoulder.

The commotion of the market crowd slowly builds and resumes, and finally, Ross manages to compose himself and rises on shaking legs. Dan has not moved a single inch since his outburst, but he is staring down at him with piercing, hardened eyes that could make anyone cower—anyone but Ross, that is. In fact, Ross is responding with his own vehement glower, and when it becomes too much for him to look at Dan like so, he casts his gaze downwards and swallows down the bile rising in his throat.

“The hell’s gotten into you?” He’s trying to stand his ground as best as he can, but his voice shakes as he speaks. “That was really fucking selfish and uncool. He was just a kid, Dan.” His eyes dart to Dan’s hardened eyes and then back down again. “I didn’t expect that shitty behavior from fucking _you_ of all people.”

With that, Ross shoves past him and storms down the worn, cracked pavement, keeping his gaze trained straight ahead. He doesn’t have to look back to know that Dan is already following him from six steps behind—fuming, yes, but forever always on his heels. They’re partners, after all; in the morning, Dan would apologize to him and Ross would have to forgive him because they’ve both learned how impossible it is to survive with someone they’re aggravated with, even if it’s aggravation formed from love.

 

xXx

 

The refugee camp is a good three mile walk from Ross and Dan’s trusty hideout. It’s stationed in a once-deserted small town that has since become a hub for Outbreak survivors to rest, mingle, or trade supplies in the market area. Ross found it during one of his daily adventurous explorations of the surrounding regions, and was initially full of wonder with the inner workings of the camp and the people that roam it.

The sidewalks of the town are in pieces and partially buried under dirt. Roads, no longer paving the way for cars, serve refugees space to move around and barter for the goods they need.  A tall watchtower present on the edge of the community always houses a lookout, and when Dan inquires to someone why, they’re told that sentries are constantly rotated on watch duty for hoards of The Infected that approach the camp from the distance. If they fully infiltrate, the plan is to completely abandon ship and desert the place—this, they’re told, has apparently happened before in other camps across the state.

Upon discovering it, Dan and Ross begin to make daily trips to the community for food, clean water, and clothes. Ross doesn’t want to think that their relationship deteriorates during this period—they still love each other a lot, after all—but it’s hard not to, mostly because Dan does not fulfill his promise of communicating with Ross, and has started to become more and more distant; he talks less, and continues to mumble to his broken radio behind closed doors. At one point, Ross contemplates taking it when the other’s not being attentive and passing it off to a dealer in the market for some extra rations, but afraid of how Dan would react, he decides against it.

Thus, a wall starts to be built between them—a wall that only continues to grow after they reunite with Arin.

In the past, Ross has described Arin to Dan as being an ambitious, burly ball of collected chaos. That had been before The Outbreak, of course, so while it’s not surprising to Dan that Arin’s personality comes off as more subdued than he’d been expecting, he does still retain a bit of goofiness that always manages to make them all smile in spite of their hard times.

When Ross spots Arin amongst the midday market crowd one day, he doesn’t recognize him at first because the other’s let his hair grow out and has it tied back in a ponytail, and his stubbly facial hair has by now encompassed a good portion of his chin and face in a goatee—in short, he looks too _different_. Still, the other has stricken Ross as oddly familiar, and when Dan leaves to do his own trading business, Ross spends a good number of minutes hovering around Arin’s supply cart until the realization finally comes upon him, and he calls out his name without even thinking, “ _Arin?_ ”

And Arin, just as enthusiastic as Ross has remembered, completely lights up as soon as he looks over and recognizes his old friend. He then proceeds to dumbfound the almost dozen other traders he’d been negotiating with by abruptly dropping his shit to bound over and grab Ross in a giant bear hug. “Dude, _holy shit!”_ He exclaims, with a loving squeeze that leaves Ross still trying to catch his breath half an hour later, “Thank fucking _god_ you weren’t turned into zombie food or something. Holy _shit_.” He mutters that last part more under his breath, reluctantly letting go of Ross so that their glee-filled expressions can finally meet.

Ross is rendered speechless by this point; he’s been exposed to so much horror over the past two months and been constantly wishing for the well-being of his close friends that he’s lost contact with, and now that he’s finally reunited with one, the words are swept right from his mouth. Though he’s smiling, he has to pause to wipe his now teary eyes before the words finally come to him, “Glad to see you aren’t zombie feces either, buddy,” and Arin is immediately hugging him again like his life depends on it.

That’s how it starts. Ross spends the rest of the day catching up with Arin whilst helping him hand off his goods in exchange for new ones, and when it nears the end of the day, they pack up his cart together just as Dan returns to gather his partner for the journey home. A full reunion thus commences; Dan and Arin haven’t met prior to this, but Ross has talked about both of them and shown so many pictures of them to each other that the first thing Arin says after he finishes hugging Dan is, “Dude, I almost didn’t recognize you without your ‘fro!”

“I think I almost forgot I ever had one,” he laughs, and it’s honestly too surreal because Ross is just beyond ecstatic that two of the most important people in his life are hitting it off just well as he’d always hoped they would.

After more friendly banter, Arin helpfully suggests they form a mutual alliance that Ross quickly agrees to and Dan quietly complies with. As he leads them through the northern exit of the town, Arin informs them about his current temporary residence, and the reason behind his frequent absences at the market.

“First thing’s first,” he says, having to heave the cart a little more now that Ross is sitting atop it, “I come here, like, every other week or so, because staying among a large crowd where The Infection can spread super easily—that fucking gives me a lot of anxiety.” Ross has never thought about it like that before. “Second, I don’t know how long’s the distance between the camp and my place, but walking to and from them takes about, uh… I dunno… maybe two to four hours, depending on the day and the amount of shit I have to carry around in this thing.” He takes a moment to shoot a pointed glare back at Ross, who grins and shrugs.

“Two to four?” Dan parrots, adjusting the large sack of vegetables that he's holding close to his chest, "Dude, it's sunset now. You’re so nonchalant to walk around after dark, even though there could be raiders—or worse, some of The Infected.”

Arin nods in agreement. “Yeah, see, that’s the thing. Raiders tend to lurk _near_ the camp, so I always figured that it’s better to just go ahead and leave early enough so that by the time it does get dark, we’ll have already distanced ourselves from it. Also, The Infected haven’t fully moved into our region yet.” He grimaces. “I mean, they’ll come sooner or later, but for now, it’s been pretty peaceful. And... all the refugees back there… they know The Infected are eventually gonna come here too. We've all experienced it, y’know? None of the others are from around here, but all of them have had a run in with those… those _things_ at some point or another, and have had to flee until they happened to end up here. I’m sure the same could probably be said for you guys, too.” The pair hums in agreement.

“Speaking of,” Ross pipes up from behind, and knowing that he could be treading on sensitive waters, he proceeds carefully, “I know that all of us have traveled from just about the opposite ends of the state, and like…” He hesitates on what to say next, picking at his dirtied hands in his lap, “…I, uh, I know you used to live with Suzy in your old apartment—“

“Ah.” Arin’s tone and demeanor have dropped so suddenly, so significantly, that Dan and Ross both look to him to see that he’s undoing the ponytail in his hair with one hand, and smiling an anxious, wobbly smile at the space ahead of him. “Suze, yeah. We, uh, got separated at the camp we were at before this one.” He’s speaking as if lost in thought, shaking his head, and as he continues on, his voice seems to get softer and softer. “We stayed at the camp too long. The Infected… they broke through one day and completely ravaged the fucking place. Total chaos. Everyone was either fleeing for their lives or getting bitten, left and right. I lost Suzy in the middle of the crowd.” And then, after sensing the dismayed silence that follows his words, he laughs out that hollow laugh of his again before explaining plainly, “and that’s why you’re not supposed to linger at a camp for too long, y’know? Too many people.”

That night, when they’ve all settled into Arin’s humble abode, Ross falls asleep with the image of Arin’s hair-obscured face tormenting his mind, hears his trying-to-be-happy voice as it shook when he confessed to him the unknown whereabouts of his girlfriend.  Before he completely loses consciousness, Ross can practically almost hear the strain of broken desperation that must’ve racked Arin’s voice when he cried out Suzy’s name, over and over again, into a congregation of human screams and groans of the undead.

 

xXx

 

As it turns out, Arin has been hiding all this time in a small farmhouse out in the middle of fucking nowhere, which Ross finds to be gut-busting _hilarious_ because the Arin he knew before was a lazy hermit who hated everything about physical labor, and yet, here he was now waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to tend to crops that he planned to trade with at the refugee camp. Ross is standing behind him and watching him dig a hoe into the ground one morning when he teases, “Never imagined you being a farmer boy, man.”

“Never imagined I’d be harvesting crops to survive in the middle of a zombie apocalypse either, but here we are,” he retorts evenly, which causes Ross to feel so bad for not helping him out that he immediately picks up a miscellaneous tool from the ground and pleads for Arin to let him be his aid. From then on, they both find that they make a good team when they work together, and on certain days, Dan even wakes up early to help out as well.

Before they know it, they’re all settling into a routine that disillusions Ross into thinking that hey, maybe there _is_ a chance for the three of them, maybe they really _would_ make it out okay.

The daily schedule is as follows: Ross, Arin, and sometimes Dan wake up at sunrise to check on and/or tend to the vegetables growing out back. If nothing’s ready to be harvested, they go out and scavenge for clean water at a pond four miles east, but if something’s sprung into fruition, they immediately start planning a trip to the market. The latter of these days tends to be the most enjoyable, and no matter how each one is spent, the group always ends up returning to the house late in the evening, exhausted, but with something new to survive on. Sometimes, they’ll spend late nights at the dining table nibbling on bartered-for stale bread while conversing about anything and everything by candlelight. Well, at least Arin and Ross do. Dan just sort of sits back and quietly listens.

The thing is, Dan doesn’t really talk anymore—Dan actually doesn’t talk at _all._ And since Ross has already become accustomed to his changing behavior, Arin is the one who pays attention to it the most.

He observes the pair quietly from afar, takes note of the way Dan always seems to be attached to Ross’s hip. If Ross moves somewhere, Dan is immediately behind him; If Ross agrees to something, Dan is always obligated to agree as well directly after. Essentially, he’s become Ross’ silent shadow, and it irks Arin to no end that Ross is just so… _unaware_.

Another thing that makes his skin crawl is the radio. Ross mentions it to him once or twice when it’s just them working on the crops in the morning, tells him not to worry too much about it, but how can he _not_ when he’s constantly waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of Dan _whispering_ to it in the guest bedroom next to his like it’s an actual, sentient being?

To put it simply, the accumulation of Dan’s strange behavior eventually builds up and spills over about a week or two after they’ve settled into their somewhat comfortable daily routine.

 

xXx

 

Tension in their alliance only tends to increase when food has been scarce for a couple of days, and this time is no exception. Lack of growth in their crops means nothing to trade for and thus, nothing to eat. During these particular periods, they spend the evenings lingering about in the living room while doing nothing but sipping on what’s left of the clean water they have, with Arin having the sense to try and lighten the mood by occasionally cracking a joke. 

This time, though, it’s just Ross and Arin splayed out among the couches, just them taking their conservative sips from the tin cups they last traded for. Dan had been given emergency water duty for the afternoon and is expected to return much later, therefore prompting his absence. Out of the corner of his eye, Ross peers at Arin’s shaking hands as they ease into bringing his cup up to his chapped, waiting lips.

He then stares back into his own cup, and after taking another generous sip he asks, “What’s the longest time you’ve ever gone without food?” His voice is alarmingly hoarse, but it’s something they’ve all gotten used to by now.

“Hmm.” Arin looks up as he thinks about it. “I dunno… maybe four days or five days, tops.”

“Five days for us too,” Ross says, mindlessly turning the cup around in his hands. “And it’s only been two right now, but it still fucks with me probably worse than the five days ever did.”

“I think that’s ‘cause, like, after the third day, your body just kinda gets used to it. Like at first you’re burning with hunger, but then after a while, you just become numb with it.”

Ross nods. “I totally get that.” They resume their silence to take their respective, languid drinks. After a while it starts to get darker, so Arin has to put down his cup and stand to search for the matches to light the candles with, and Ross’s eyes are glued to his back as he works. He calls out a second later, “Arin?” 

“Yeah?”

The words are falling from his mouth before he can stop them, “Are we gonna die?”

“…Nah.” Arin deadpans without a flinch. “We’re gonna wait for the crops to grow out again, and when they do, we’ll trade them and end up having a feast of moldy bread with gross-smelling milk, just like we always do.”

But Ross isn’t sure if he can last this time because his stomach feels like a hole is being burned into it, and that’s literally all he can feel at the moment—the burning, the hole; that’s all he can think about as he grabs Dan’s radio off his nightstand later that night, and shoves it into his backpack in preparation for his impromptu market trip the next day.

 

xXx

 

Arin doesn’t think of himself as much of a fighter. That doesn’t mean he lacks the strength to win in a fight—he certainly has the build to, but he’s never felt compelled to actually engage in, or worse, initiate one. In fact, being overcome with the emotion of pure, genuine rage never fails to catch him off guard because every time he’s faced with even a tiny bit of anger, he tries to quell it as best he can—almost on reflex, if you will.

The weird thing is, he isn’t even given a legitimate reason to be angry this time—it just sort of sparks in him as he approaches the house the following evening with his cart full of pailed pond water. The walk back hadn’t been as tedious as it usually is so he’s actually in a fair mood, but that changes as soon as he pushes past the fenced gate bordering their land; he’s lugged the cart over to the side in preparation for cleaning the water later when he starts to hear them.

At first, Arin thinks it’s all in his head because they sound slightly distant, and it’s only until he takes a few more hesitant steps closer to the house that he realizes no, it’s not in his head, there really _are_ yelling—practically _screaming_ —voices coming from the inside.

Immediately, his blood runs cold and his senses are switched to on high alert. He’s barely even reached for the doorknob before it’s abruptly being wrenched to the side, and then the door is  flinging itself into the wall and out rushes Dan in a fit of fury—Arin doesn’t get a full view of him in the time he’s barging past him and storming out the front gate, but he’s able to catch a glimpse of his reddened face and clouded expression, and that’s just enough to make him turn to scream after him so boisterously loud that it burns his throat, “ _HEY!_ ”

His feet are glued to the ground, chest is heaving, swelling with anger, as he watches Dan’s figure get smaller and smaller until he’s completely disappeared into the distance, and for a split second he’s actually going to run after him, but then he remembers Ross _oh fuck Ross_ and then he’s tearing his way through the house and bursting into the kitchen to find the other staring blank faced at the counter with one hand on his cheek.

“Arin,” Ross looks up slowly—his eyes are red so he knows he’s been crying, “I-I don’t want him to hurt himself—could you—“

“Did he hit you?” Not a blink is spared and Arin is right in front of him, trying to pry the hand on his face away, and soon they’re both speaking incoherently at the same time in gradually raising volumes, “Did he fucking _hit you_?!”

“I don’t want him to—c-could you go after him, he’s probably going to do something s-stupid—“

“Ross _, did Dan hit you?!_ ”

But Ross can’t hear him— his fingers grab hold of the other’s shirt and he’s got a lost look in his eyes; he’s breathing faster, voice is breaking—“Arin— _A-Arin_ , he’s gonna hurt himself—“

“ _—ROSS._ ”

It’s got so much conviction, so much power, that it deafeningly silences the room. Arin has one hand gripping Ross’s shoulder and the other one having shoved the hand on Ross’s face away by gripping its wrist; he’s assessing the purplish, blue bruise on his cheek with heavy eyes that make Ross want to start crying again, but he’s already cried so much that there aren’t any tears left, so all he can do is stand powerless while emitting dry, tearless sobs instead. Aside from those, it’s so quiet in the kitchen that you can almost hear a pin drop.

Arin is motionless for what feels like hours. He doesn’t know how it happens, but he ends up with his back turned to Ross and his hands pressed so hard against the counter that he can feel his fingers tingle from the pressure. He’s staring intensely into its granite surface, trying to find a way to collect his scrambled mess of thoughts.

Ross himself has to take a moment to swallow hard and wipe his eyes, to just _breathe_ and calm himself down, before he tentatively moves, takes one step forward to touch a hand to Arin’s back. “I hit him back,” he tries to say, but his voice hurts and it sounds odd, “I—It’s my fault.”

No response. Arin’s not budging an inch, and Ross can only hear the other’s shaky breathing from his desperate attempts to calm himself down. Another moment passes, and Ross begins to move the hand on his back in slow, gentle circles, trying to coax Arin in the only way he can think of right now. “I… I took the radio,” he continues, now more softly than ever, “I took it while he was gone yesterday, and I went to the market today to hand it off to some guy who thought he could make use of it, i-inexchangeforsomefruit.” That last part, it rushes out of his mouth like a breath of air—so quickly that he has to pause to comprehend what he’s just said before moving on, “I was so fucking hungry—s-so _fucking_ —“

“—He didn’t need to hit you for that.”

“I didn’t even fucking _ask_ , Arin! I wasn’t even thinking—!” Whatever composure Ross has managed to build for himself slowly starts to fall apart again, “You’ve seen him with that thing; you fucking _know_ how much it means to him!”

“Oh, so that just,” Arin whips around to boldly face him,  “so that automatically makes it  fucking okay for Dan Avidan, who’s supposed to love you like the fucking world; Dan, who’d supposedly do anything to keep you from getting hurt, to _hit_ you?! _Really_ , Ross? Fucking _really_?!” This time, Ross doesn’t reply. He’s got his head bowed in shame and Arin takes it as a sign to continue, “I fucking _knew_ there was something off about him… I was already thinking about ditching this place with you after our next harvest, and just heading north until we run into another refugee camp and figure out where we can go from there.” He runs a hand through his hair, speaking more to himself than to Ross now, “It’s our safest course of action if we wanna avoid the next Infiltration, and get away from _him._ ”

“…We’re not ditching him, Arin.” Ross’s reply is meek; his eyes are still fixed on the ground. “That’s too cruel, even for you.”

“Well,” He retorts, pushing past him to kneel down and search for something in the sink cabinet behind him, “sorry to disappoint, but I’m not the same person as I was before.”

“Neither am I. Neither is _he_. Dan especially. We’ve all seen some shit, we’ve all changed, but…. Dan’s been hit the hardest by it.” As Ross speaks, the volume of his wavering voice slowly rises. “I promise you, he used to be so much different than he is right now. Dan was probably the happiest out of all of us, and the reason he’s been acting so strange is because all of _this_ has left him with more scars than the both of us combined.” He waits for Arin to say something, but he’s busy removing a towel from the cabinet before he walks out of the room, then returns a second later with one of the pails of pond water from out front. He places it on the counter and begins to dip the edges the towel in it. Ross clears his throat and starts again, “He’s more stressed than us, and doesn’t know how to handle it, so he lashes out. He’s not as emotionally strong as us.” And then, extra quietly, “…he’ll probably be back later tonight.”

Arin knows this and still does not reply, just listens to Ross try to justify the abuse given to him with a neutral expression. When the towel’s damp enough, he walks over to him, gently lifts his chin in one hand, and begins to dab at the bloody wound on his cheek. The scene is all too familiar to Ross, and the déjà vu makes his stomach lurch a little. All is quiet again, save for Ross wincing softly and shifting uncomfortably against the back of the counter.

And finally, because he can’t just handle letting Arin care for him in silence, Ross begins, “Arin?”

“What.”

“I know the chances are near impossible, but like… say we make it out okay. Say there’s, like, an atomic bomb that wipes out all of The Infected, and then everything goes back to the way it was before.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And Suzy’s with us, and then we can all just go out on a double date or something, I dunno.” He pauses. “Would you let me treat you all to ice-cream?”

To both their surprise, Arin chuckles lowly. “Question of the year, Ross. A+ timing.” He removes the towel and leans over to dip it in the water again, before resuming his work. “…But yeah, sure. It’s all on you, though.”

“We gotta fistbump on it.”

“On post-apocalyptic ice-cream?”

“Yeah, dude, what else?”

Arin recoils to tap his fist with Ross’s accordingly. “Better be some good-ass ice-cream. None of that Baskin Robbins shit, either— I’m talking Ben and Jerry’s here.”

“Fuck you, man, Baskin Robbins is the goddamned best.”

And then, if only for a moment, they’re bickering like old times again, and Ross refuses to bite back the smile that his lips spread into.

 

xXx

 

That night, Arin sits on the front porch and waits for Dan to return to the house. When he does, they do not speak a single word to each other; Arin merely shares a look with him, and then stands to step aside and open the door for him. He follows him inside and up the stairs until the other’s disappeared into his and Ross’s room, and just as Arin retreats into his own, he can faintly hear Dan’s voice as he whispers Ross soft apologies and quiet words of endearment.


	3. Exodos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnnnnd it's done!
> 
> again, guys, thanks so much for the likes/reblogs/comments. i love reading what y'all have to say about the different chapters and stuff! it makes me super happy and grateful for everyone.
> 
> also, thanks again to all my betas! i put them through a lot of hell when they're editing my shit. y'all know who you are 
> 
> (speaking of betas-- one of them was editing this over Skype with me, and my iPod was on shuffle and If Everyone Cared by Nickelback came on, and we were both suddenly sobbing over how well it fit the overall tone of the story. i never thought i'd see the day when i'd cry over a Nickelback song.)

Ross does not want to remember anymore.

He does anyway, though; thinks back to when times were simpler, to when he showed his boyfriend a picture of Arin for what Ross remembers to be the third time during his and Dan's relationship. Every time he’d done so previously, Dan would always develop a possessive lilt in his voice while quickly changing the subject (and Ross thought that kind of behavior was _cute_ at the time, thought it to be entertaining that Dan was capable of such jealousy).

“C’mon, man, can’t you take this more seriously?” He’d whined just then, because Dan had taken one look at the picture on Ross’s phone and exploded in a fit of tremendous laughter.

He was laughing so hard that he had to lean back against the booth and rest his hand on his stomach—sometimes Ross teased him by calling it an old man laugh, but that was an entirely different story. “Dude—“ Dan tried to say in between uncontrollable giggles, “D-Dude—“

Ross patiently waited for the other to calm himself down while bearing an unamused expression, removing his glass of milk from the table at one point to take a sip as he watched Dan absolutely loose his shit—banging fists and tears streaming down his face all included. A waiter passed by them then and gave them a look of concern, to which Ross responded by smiling reassuringly at him as if to say, _no we’re fine, we’re normal, sorry my partner is acting like he’s three._

It was a few seconds later before Dan began to quiet down, and Ross was just putting down his cup again when the other finally managed, “Does he smoke?”

“What? _No!_ ” _That’d_ certainly caught Ross off guard; he was a lot more offended than he’d been expecting himself to be.

“He looks like someone I’d wanna get high with back when I was into that shit.” Dan wiped his eyes while continuing, “It’s definitely the hair.”

“Is _that_ why you laughed so hard?"

“Nah, I was laughing because imagining you hanging out with someone from that type of crowd is _hilarious_.” Then, as if to imitate Ross, he raised the pitch of his voice and attempted at an Australian accent that ended up sounding like an awful cockney one instead, “Oi, mate, do you _blaze?_ Could you pass me the Mary Jane?”

“Okay, man, shut up,” Ross tried to hold back his giggles at the terrible impression but they escaped him nonetheless, “I don’t fucking sound like that.”

“Is it 4/20, my good lad?”

“ _Dan_ —“

“Do I sound sexy like this?” Dan struck a pose; Ross hid his smile behind his cup as he finished the last of his drink.

“You sound like you want the entire population of Australia to punch you in the jaw,” he responded, shaking his head. His gaze returned to the photo on his phone again; it depicted him and Arin from a few months ago during their trip to Disneyland. Both stood in front of Cinderella’s castle, Arin throwing up a peace sign and making a goofy face while Ross stood in a brawling pose, sunglasses having slid halfway down his nose, smoldering at the camera.

Dan observed the way Ross looked at the picture, took note of his receding grin, and shifted to the growing serious tone of the conversation. “Sorry for laughing,” he said, now devoid of his silly accent. “What did you want to tell me about him?”

“He’s, um…” Ross looked at the picture for a moment longer, then turned off his phone and pushed it to the side, leaning forward on the table on his elbows. “He’s my best friend. He really means a lot to me. And… you mean a lot to me.” He shrugged. “I dunno. I think I just get nervous when I think about introducing the two people that mean the most to me to each other. Is that weird?”

“Aw, Ross, _dude,_ ” Dan, too, leaned in, and reached out across the table to gently take one of Ross’s hands in his own. “Of _course_ it’s not. It’s totally not. It’s like when I had to introduce you to my parents—I was freaking the fuck out, remember?” He rubbed his thumb in comforting little circles over the other’s knuckles. “It’s gonna be okay.”

If there was one thing Dan could always do, it was reassuring Ross for the better. His words never failed to serve as a pacifier for his hectic worries. Ross smiled small at his boyfriend, and then at the empty dish in front of him because he had nowhere else to look. “Man, when you put it like that, it’s like I have no idea why I was freaking out in the first place.”

“It’s probably because you like to worry yourself silly.” The restlessness that had started to settle in Dan’s stomach when Ross had tensed began to lift itself away as soon as the other’s smile had returned. “….You know what we should do?” An idea that had suddenly wormed into his thoughts made Dan bounce a little in his seat. “After we finish up here, we should drive down to the lake and take a walk along the trail around it a few times. It’s really pretty when the sun’s setting; I think it would be a good stress-reliever for you.”

Just the mere thought of it made Ross tingle all over with warmth, and he retracted his hand to dig around his back pocket for his wallet. “Do you know what type of people hang around the lake after dark?”

Dan’s high-pitched accent returned, “Why, smokers of the Mary Jane, chummy chum of mine.” And then, in his normal voice, “…and I said during sunset, not after dark.”

“Fair enough.” Overwhelmed with a sudden rush of giddiness, Ross pulled out his wallet and raised his other hand a little just as their waiter passed by their table again, calling out, “Excuse me? Check, please.”

 

xXx

 

It’s strange how in just a manner of moments, one’s entire perspective on life, on the _world,_ can change.

Ross wonders how differently everything would have turned out if he’d stayed at the refugee camp just a bit longer that day, or if he’d stopped to take a rest on the trek home, or even if he hadn’t gone to the camp in the first place. He wonders what would have happened if he’d walked into the house minutes later, if Dan would’ve had the time to cover his tracks before he’d walked in and they’d still end up traveling across the state together as they’d always planned they would.

This isn’t what happens, however.

 

xXx

 

The first thing he remembers is the odor.

It’s putrid and fervent, rotten, fills his nostrils and stings him for days on end afterwards. It’s unlike anything he’s ever smelled before, and as soon as he takes two steps into the house, he’s cupping his nose with one hand and calling out, “Dan? Arin?” Cursing under his breath, then, “Hello? It fucking stinks in here, guys.”

When he’s only answered with silence, something slowly creeps under his skin to prickle goose bumps onto his flesh.

The house is atmospherically lit with warm candlelight that contradicts its overbearing, dark atmosphere. Ross doesn’t know why he proceeds with unease from then on, but he does, anxiously slipping off his supply bag onto the counter before taking cautious steps from the kitchen into the living room. In his hand he clutches a small, clunky, box-like item—Dan’s radio, which he’d bartered back for in exchange for some tomatoes he’d picked the previous day. “Dan?” He calls out again, but this time there’s edge in his voice, “I got the radio back—It took some convincing but it’s still the same as it was before—“

_Squelch._

From underneath the sole of his boot, something oozes—red, thick, and suddenly Ross can’t breathe _, blood_ , _oh my god_. His eyes follow it frantically up the floor to where it’s making a trail to whatever’s in front of the couch, which he can’t see because he’s standing behind it, which he doesn’t _want_ to see because his heart is rupturing in his chest, because his knees are getting weaker and he can’t even think anymore, but his feet are moving themselves anyway, stumbling, guiding him blindly to where Arin’s corpse lies sprawled out on the carpet.

And this is the second time Ross gets the sinking feeling, except it’s not sinking this time so much as it is disgustingly overwhelming, causing him to fall to his knees out of undiluted shock. His head spins faster and faster, heart pounds into his chest mercilessly, body shakes with terror, and mouth goes dry with screams and vomit that lie anxiously on his lips yet do not escape him. There are an endless multitude of things he wants to say, scream, _do_ , but the only things his brain allows him to is drop everything, kneel down, and reach out for Arin’s lifeless body and gather it in his arms. Cradling it like an infant, he runs the pads of his fingers softly over Arin’s white face. No questions yet—his brain is too much of a mess for that—but only comfort and consolation instead.

The blood that’s pooled in Arin’s shirt dribbles from his wounds, makes lines down his torso, and stains an unaware Ross. His trembling fingers first move to gently close Arin’s eyelids, and then stroke shakily through his hair. Ross stays like that for what feels like hours, just sitting there, staring at his pale face, trying to comprehend if this truly was reality or not.

The next time Ross blinks, wetness is biting at his eyes and making his pulse throb in his ears, and he’s looked at Arin’s face for so long that his vision of him becomes blurred. It isn’t until then that his mind begins to finally relapse, and the confusion, the sheer mixture of confusion and terror hits him like an electric shock ramming full force into his body:

_Why?_

He’s whispered it aloud and doesn’t even know it—the impact is that great. His eyes are stuck to Arin’s murky expression because he’s terrified of seeing the mutilation of his body below that point. “J-Jesus, Arin, I’m sorry,” his words tremble, punctuated with shaky breathing, and he forces himself to take deep, gulping breaths as he continues on because he has to keep himself together, _he has to_ , “I’m s-sorry, I’m _so_ fucking sorry, you didn’t deserve this—” Ross gathers more conviction in his tone, like he’s trying to convince himself, “—y-you didn’t deserve to go out like this.”

_Why?_

The word is welded in his conscience, deep-set now, as he envisions Arin’s smiling face as it had greeted him just that morning. And once he does that, it’s not sadness that’s overcoming him anymore so much as it is _anger,_ anger that fuels his thought process to the point where it’s no longer _I’m sorry this happened_ and it’s now _who did this to you, who hurt you this way, please tell me who hurt you like this_. 

“Ross.”

Ross’s heavy gaze lifts. It’s dark, so he can only make out his silhouette, but Dan is standing at the bottom of the staircase, watching him with glinting eyes.

“Dan,” Ross starts anyway, rational thought left in the shadow of his convoluted emotions as he looks, absolutely bewildered, from Arin’s body to his partner’s figure, “Dan, o-oh my _god_ , D-Dan—“

“Ross—“

“He’s _dead,_ Dan—!” At last Ross breaks, just fucking breaks, and his eyes are burning with tears, nose burning, ears ringing with them as he hiccups out, “he’s fucking _d-dead_ , Dan, _Arin’s_ dead, Arin’s _dead—“_

“—Ross, I need you to step away from his body.”

Dan’s command lingers throughout the house as an echo that quiets them both. It is calm yet firm, hesitant yet sharp with edge; Ross has never heard Dan speak to him like that in his life, and it instinctively prompts him to be more protective of Arin. Tightening the grip he has on his cold body, Ross forces out through his shaking voice, “… _Why_?” There it was, the word he’d so desperately longed to escape him at last out on his tongue.

Dan refrains from moving in the slightest. “…I don’t think it’s the safest or healthiest idea for you to hang around a corpse like that.” The sour manner in which he utters the word “corpse” makes Ross's innards quiver.

In fact, Ross does not want to move at all, but he can already feel his body go against his wishes because his arms are slowly removing himself from Arin, and then he’s standing and distancing himself from his body until he’s dizzyingly trotted over to where Dan is. His feet stop when he’s a good three feet away from the other because his eyes have flickered to an object in Dan’s left hand—Dan is practically totally obscured in the darkness, so Ross can’t see his expression or body, but he swears that whatever he’s gripping flashed a little, if only for a split second.

This is why when Dan actually begins to speak to him again, Ross cannot hear him; his voice reaches his ears as muted background noise because he’s now far too focused on whatever he’s holding. No matter how much he tries to force his eyes to adjust to the dark, he can’t make out what it is—or, he later thinks, maybe he could, but his mind prevented him from recognizing it because he didn’t want to face the horrific implications that it wielded.

Then it’s like something snaps within him, and the next move Ross makes is completely unplanned. Without any warning, he is jolting forward and grabbing Dan’s wrist and _twisting_ his arm downwards with all of the might he can muster; he hears Dan let out an extensive cry of pain and feels the other struggling against him, feels him gripping blindly at him to stop him, and Ross knows Dan is stronger than him but that only fuels his drive to just keep twisting until Dan's dropping whatever he’s been holding to the ground. It slides away from them both, drawing their gazes away from each other to where it clatters to a halt where the wood floors meet with the carpet. Ross immediately lets go of Dan, and they both take a simultaneous, sharp intake of breath.

On the middle of the floor lies a brandished, clean, freshly-polished knife.

And Ross has never felt suicidal before, has never found the prospect of hurting himself to be admirable or desirable, but in that very moment, he wants to die. As in, he hugs his arms around himself so that his nails dig into either arm, clawing at his own skin until blood is being drawn, and he suddenly can’t see, doesn’t know where he’s facing or if he’s facing anyone at all; he cannot think because his mind is far too gone. His mouth rapidly loses all moisture until he’s doubled over and dry heaving—but with an empty stomach, nothing comes out, so he continues on and eventually stops when his chest is sore and tears start to well in his eyes.

He does not pry his bloodied hands away from himself as he straightens to look at Dan through disoriented vision, while the remnants of his prior attack seize his body in the form of drastic, hacking coughs. Between unstable breaths and the violent burning of his throat, he’s unable to manage a word. And then everything abruptly seems to move in slow motion as Dan is suddenly moving towards him—maybe to pat his back, comfort him, fuck if he knows—but in seconds Ross has pushed him away, emitting a low, guttural sound that further scars his throat. “ _Don’t fucking touch me_ ,” is his vehement burst, “you _killed_ him, fuck, Dan, _f-fuck_ —“

“—He was fucking _bitten_ , Ross, he asked me to— _I didn’t want to—_ “

“—the _FUCK_ he was, _Dan!_ ” Ross projects it almost as a cry of desperation, so defiant that he quakes, that his hands clench into constricting fists around his already bruised and scratched arms, “You _know_ he wouldn’t have even fucking _told_ you if he was bitten, you _know_ he wouldn’t, h-he would’ve—“ He stops because he’s choking on his words, because he can visibly see the entire world he knows and loves fall apart as he tries to speak; because he’s almost started to cry again, because he realizes that he’d rather live through a million Outbreaks than suffer the way he does now. “He w-would’ve—“—killed himself? What he wishes to say fails to register anymore, “He… w-w-ould’ve—would’ve…” Ross is rubbing at his teary, bloodshot eyes, hiccupping, and the air in the room is quiet again; Dan merely stands there, silent with nondescript emotion.

“…Why did you kill him, Dan?” Ross’s slow descent into hysterics begins with a frisk sob, and he hunches over slightly as if he’s sick, wiping at his eyes with one hand and holding himself with the other, “ _Why?_ ”

Only Ross’s strangled gasps can be heard among their thick silence, and Dan does nothing but watch the other break before him while swallowing down a lump that forms in his throat. His fingers clench inwards tightly into his palms, mouth fights for sentences as he attempts to speak through powerful, impeding sensations.

Then at last, “H-He was going to _hurt_ you,” voice cracking as it makes its way into the empty space between them, and when Ross manages to look up, Dan’s eyes are boring straight into his own, panicked, _wild_ , “He told—told me…h-he was going to take you _a-away_ from me.”

From the depths of Ross's mind, Arin’s voice from earlier seeps into his ears, _“I was already thinking about ditching this place with you after our next harvest, and just heading north…”_

It clicks.

Ross is now paralyzed, losing the ability to form coherent speech and going completely limp; upon what Dan has said fully reaching him, his sobs cease and expression becomes a blank slate. And Dan is the one who’s crying now, sobbing his god-awful sounds that make Ross shudder uncontrollably from his head to his toes, and he can barely perceive Danny's broken apologies and calls for him through his muddied, traumatized stream of thoughts. When possessive arms are suddenly weaving themselves around him, Ross can do nothing but mindlessly submerge himself into Dan’s chest as the other pulls him close and strokes his hair through his fingers, squeezes his unresponsive body like a ragdoll, murmurs his fragile words over and over again to him as if to burn them into his consciousness: “ _H-He was going to take you away from_ me _, Ross, he was going to f-fucking take you a-away…”_

 

xXx

 

Every time Dan breathes, the entire world shakes.

At least, that’s what it feels like to Ross, who lays awake that night in the bed next to Dan's with wide eyes fixed upon the ceiling. Drowsiness refuses to overcome him because all he can focus on are the two presences within the house: the first of which is not even alive, and the second, _too_ alive.

Images of Arin haunt him as he does nothing but just listen to Dan, listens to the way he weakly breathes in that manner that makes it sound like he’s in a perpetual state of constant pain. Ross hears it in the breaks in his inhales, and the slight wheezes in his exhales. A broken rhythm, if you will.

He’s so close.

If Ross wanted, he could touch him. _Dan is tangible,_ he has to remind himself; if he wants to play with his curly hair, all he has to do is stand, make the four step trek between their beds, and keel over his sleeping body to touch him.

So he does.

With gentle fingers prodding through his thick, dark curls, Ross hovers over unconscious Dan, watches him breathe, admires his slightly flushed cheeks, and counts every time his eyelids flutter a little. So precious, but so unaware.

_A murderer._

There is a large pillow on Ross’s bed, white and bountiful, and while his fingers coddle Dan, he cannot take his eyes away from it because it reminds him of how easy it would be to just _kill_ him right then and there. He imagines taking it off the bed and pressing it into sleeping Dan’s face as hard as he can so that the air slips away from him, imagines how he’d writhe  and move underneath him in panic until his body goes rigid and he can no longer fight back. He wonders if Dan would even fight back at all, or if he would recognize what Ross was doing to him and easily accept death with open arms.

His eyes are spurring as he contemplates this, as he finds himself actually standing to remove the pillow from his bed and feel its plushness in his hands, and then there he is, looming over Leigh Daniel Avidan with a real, live murder weapon—something he would’ve never imagined himself to be doing in a million years.

Next, Ross thinks about the noises Dan would make, wonders if he would be able to make out his muffled name being cried out from underneath the suffocating fabric. How long would it take for the deed to be completely done? Such are the questions that plague his mind until he stops to consider just retrieving the knife from downstairs instead, and that only makes him think about Arin again, and how he would react if he saw Ross now.

Then waves of shame and panic settle into him in the form of bodily tremors; Ross’s whole being quakes so that the pillow slips from his hands and onto the floor with a soft _thud_.

Arin would’ve never asked to be avenged—not like this.

And so he shakily stands to gather his supply backpack from its place beside his bed, shoulders it onto himself, and creeps to the doorframe, where he pauses to peer at Dan for a moment longer—eyes the way a sliver of moonlight comes in from the window to illuminate his face. He memorizes the exact way Dan looks down to the very last miniscule detail, inking an image of him into his mind that he can never forget; this is probably the last time he will ever see him again.

Dan curls further into himself, sighs in his slumber, and Ross takes this as his final sign to make his escape. He eases the door close gradually, and just before it’s pushed in all the way, he faintly hears himself whisper a shaky goodbye.

Working his way through the halls and down the stairs proves to be difficult—he is not ready to part with his home of a number of hard weeks, not ready to say goodbye to the crops they’ve worked so diligently on outside, but he keeps pushing onwards because he knows it’s presently his best course of action. Distancing himself from the place as much as he can now means surviving, and that is what Arin would have wanted him to strive for.

The hardest part of the escape is walking past where Dan’s _left_ him and knowing that he can’t do a single thing to help; if he weren’t pressed for time, he’d try his best to find an inconspicuous spot to bury his body in the surrounding land. For this reason, Ross prays for him to his ambiguous God as he slips past the front door and gate. He does not know where he’s going, but the first thing he’ll do when he gets there is create a grave for him so that he can know his friend is at peace.

Once he’s fully stepped out, Ross stands still for an anxious instant, breathing hard, gaze sweeping the area and weighing his best options. Returning back to town was foolish because Dan would look for him there first. Accordingly, he turns his attention eastward, and then begins to jog in that direction at a slow and steady pace. It is a massive head start, and he’s going to need it.

Whatever the destination Ross now seeks is sufficient because it means being away from Dan and the house, and that’s all that matters to him. Since it is the middle of the night, he knows his chances of survival are diminishing due to his higher chance of having a run-in with The Infected, so when he reaches the next set of crossroads, he stops to slip his knife out of his bag before continuing his escape with extra caution.

Ross may not know where he is going, but he now knows that the only way he’s going to survive is not by relying on anyone else—no, from here on out, he’s only going to work at taking care of _himself_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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